


Need a little help from my friends

by Florenz87



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystrade fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florenz87/pseuds/Florenz87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg was a fourty-two year old man, who lived in a rundown bed sit, his career had gone down the toilet, his marriage had been a farce, he was not the father his girls deserved and he had a total of 57,38 pounds in his bank account.</p>
<p>And the worst thing? Seeing Mycroft, fucking, Holmes deduce all that with one calculated gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg took a deep breath and let his head sink against the window. The cool glass soothed his overheated skin. The beer must have been bad. Or maybe the two, three, four, whiskeys on an empty stomach.  
The living room of 221B Baker street was crowded. The people chattering, the music and the clinking of glasses were even louder than the buzzing in Gregs head.  
This year’s Christmas party was overly well attended. Molly and her Sherlock-clone cuddled in one of the chairs. Angelo and his wife played a, to Greg unbeknown, game of cards with a group of Sherlocks “runners”, accompanied by loud shouting and guffawing. A handful off John’s colleagues, from the hospital, Mike Stamford and John himself were playing a drinking game that involved an Anatomy book and black and blue biros. Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner were bustling in the kitchen, mixing another batch of alcohol laden cocktails.   
And in between that entire ruckus, sitting on the couch, playing a game of chess with his brother, was Mycroft Holmes.

Greg rubbed at his forehead for a second, before looking, again, at the reflection of Mycroft in the window pane. Not a hair out of place, not a tiny wrinkle in his expensive suit.   
God, he looked good enough to eat. 

His breath fogged up the glass and hid Mycroft´s face. As if a spell had been broken Gregs thoughts started to clear.   
He had to leave before he did something stupid and horrible embarrassing, like mooning over Mycroft Holmes in a room full of people. He mumbled something about “needing a cigarette” to no one specific on his way out of the flat.  
Cigarettes? Who was he kidding? He could not afford to eat three meals a day, let alone to buy expensive luxuries like cigarettes.   
The moment he stepped out onto the street, the cold wind bit through his clothes into his skin. Right, his coat was still in 221B Baker street.   
Whatever. Greg shook his head and pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The cold would do him good. Would sober him up faster.   
Half way to the subway station, which was no short walk, he remembered that his wallet and keys were in the left pocket of his coat… in 221B Bakerstreet. Defeated, Greg stopped next to a bus stop. The wind had picked up and his body shivered in the thin jumper and jeans. Tears burned in his eyes. God, he was a reasonable man, he was an adult, he was a police officer.

He had been quiet and still when John had yelled and ranted at him after Sherlocks “suicide”. He had nodded his head in silent acknowledgment of his responsibility in Sherlocks desperate decision to kill himself.  
He had been calm and collected when they gave his job to DI Dimmock, demoted him to traffic police and cut his salary in half.   
He was composed and polite the day his ex-wife told him that she would move with the girls from London to Plymouth to live with her new partner. He had promised his daughters to visit soon, helped them load everything into the moving van and kissed them goodbye. 

But now it was just all too much. The straw that broke the camel’s back.   
He was a fourty-two year old man, who lived in a rundown bed sit, his career had gone down the toilet, his marriage had been a farce, he was not the father his girls deserved and he had a total of 57,38 pounds in his bank account.  
And Mycroft, fucking, Holmes had to be there and see all that with one calculated gaze, the minute he had stepped foot into the flat.   
How could he have ever been insane enough to think he could be anything to Mycroft Holmes? Whatever kind of chemistry he had imagined between himself and the older Holmes brother had surely been lost after Gregs impressive tumble down the social ladder.  
A man who was in total control of absolutely everything, especially himself. He would not even look down on Greg, he would not waste a look at all.  
Greg scrubbed angrily at his teary eyes. There was no way he would go back to Baker street to get his coat. There was simply no way he would take the chance to run into Mycroft Holmes ever again. 

Shivering he kicked at the side wall of a bus stop with no real vigour.

The shrill sound and the lights of an ambulance tor him out of his musings. God, he needed to get a grip. He was a reasonable man, he was an adult, he was a police officer. Greg scrubbed his faces with the sleeve of his jumper. Then pulled the sleeve up and pinched the inside of his arm until he saw stars and left angry red marks that would soon turn blue. When that did not help he proceeded on his other arm. 

He was a reasonable man, he was an adult, he was a police officer. He would go back, grap his coat, thank John for the party. Then he would go home, sleep of the alcohol and get a fucking grip on his life. Heaven, alcohol really made him emotional.

The skin of his underarms burned and felt like tiny needles were embedded in it. A nice distraction to the cold that had finally crawled into his bones. Better to go back to Baker street, pick up his coat and get this night over with.

A lone figure stood in front of 221B. The end of the cigarette glowed as Mycroft took another lungful of nicotine. He was bundled up in a smartly tailored coat and cashmere scarf. In his hand he held his obligatory umbrella. Over his arm was Gregs coat, neatly folded.

“I have to admit I expected you back three minutes ago Gregory. Alcohol makes you unreasonable AND slow.” Mycroft took another drag on the cigarette before throwing the butt into the gutter.

Greg tried to say something witty or funny about Mycroft losing the chess game against his brother or Mycroft spending time in a room that resembled a student party. But he could only smile tiredly and reach for his coat. His body still trembling from the last 30 or so minutes in the freezing cold.

Mycroft handed him his coat but Gregs frozen fingers were not able to button it. With resolute movements Mycroft took over and bundled the shivering man up. The moment the smell of cigarette smoke and cologne reached his brain was the moment the police officer finally realised that Mycroft had put his cashmere scarf around Gregs own neck as well. The smell and retained body heat made Greg feel fuzzy for a second. 

Mycroft stayed in his personal space, his mouth next to Gregs ear. The smell, the warmth seeping from the other body into his, the proximity to the man …   
Mycroft was talking, whispering earnestly into Gregs hear.  
“There is plaster dust on your shoes – you are living in a building that is in a bad state of repair. The mouldy smell on your clothes - wet walls and mildew. You are badly shaven, - small bathroom with poor light. Pasty skin, sunken cheeks, wild eyes – you are living on coffee and sugar…”  
Mycroft was still talking. Words like “heirloom watch missing – child support”, “Demoted – job – living arrangements” touched his consciences; Greg was only catching on parts of it. He tried to step back when Mycroft mentioned the mouldy smell on his clothes, but the older man gripped his shoulder with one impressively strong hand and kept him still. 

“Do you agree Gregory?” Greg was pulled back into reality. Mycroft was standing in front of him, one eyebrow raised and an enquiring look on his face, hands folded over the handle of his umbrella.

“I do?” Mumbled Greg, still half drunk on Mycrofts warmth and smell and the Whiskey from before.

“Excellent.”


	2. Chapter 2

Determined pounding against the door of his bedroom jolted Greg out of deep sleep. The pounding echoed quite impressively in his head. It took him a few seconds to reorganize his limps before he was able to roll off the creaking bed.   
The pounding in his head intensified when he bent down to pick up his cold and clammy trousers from the floor. Instead of risking another lurching in his stomach he opted against his jumper, who had served as a companion to the trousers during their short night on the chilly floor. Instead he pulled on his coat which hung over the doorknob.  
When Greg finally opened the door he found himself face to face with a harried looking man in an astoundingly ugly overall with the faded logo of a moving company on the front.  
“G. Lestrange?” asked the man, with a heavy accent, while checking a crumbled piece of paper on his clipboard. Greg let out a huff and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s actually Lestrade. What..?” Before he could ask what the whole commotion was all about, he was interrupted by the man yelling something in a Eastern European language, maybe Polish, down the staircase. Which was immediately answered by more Polish shouting. “Oi!” Greg was stopped from following the shouting Polish mover down the stairs by an insistent buzzing in the pocket of his coat.  
He fished the vibrating phone out of his pocket while leaning over the staircase railing. A group of stressed out movers were carrying in empty boxes and bubble wrap.

“Hello Gregory, I hope I find you in good health.”  
“Mycroft!” Greg exhaled. He tried to compose himself. Which was not easy, his bare feet were cold and sticky from the dirty floor, he was wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and a coat which he held closed with one hand and he was sure his face was still showing pillow scars. “Mycroft, why is a bunch of Polish movers at my place?”  
“I am afraid I don’t know anything about Polish gentleman at your flat Gregory.” Greg almost toppled over the railing when he saw a familiar young woman with a blackberry among the movers.   
“But I took the liberty to arrange the service of a Hungarian friend of mine. Ten years in England, still does not speak a word of English, but very dependable when it comes to moving things from A to B. Oh, and Gregory, put on some shoes, cold feet make you irritable.” Mycrofts voice was silky and matter of fact at the same time. In the background, Greg could hear paper rustling and typing.   
“Mycroft, why are Hungarian movers about to pack up my stuff?”  
“We already discussed everything yesterday Gregory. Let Gabor and his boys do their work. John just received a text message from your phone number with an invitation for lunch at the curry restaurant on Fieldgate street. Don’t make him wait. ”

“Oh, and Gregory?”  
“Yes?”  
“I am looking forward to seeing you tonight.”


End file.
